


snow falls faint

by ofwickedlight



Series: our world hollow universe [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Brienne is dead and Jaime mourns her, Canon - Book, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Companion Piece, Death, Depression, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Grandpa Jaime, Grief/Mourning, Jaime is Brienne's widow, Non-Linear Narrative, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Jaime Lannister, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Queen Myrcella, The Long Night, Valonqar Prophecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofwickedlight/pseuds/ofwickedlight
Summary: Jaime had a daughter, and a grandson, and a wife, once.Once.A companion piece to my fic"our world hollow,"a post apocalypse AU in which Myrcella and Jaime wander the frozen wastes of Westeros after the Others have won. This fic is told from Jaime's POV instead of Myrcella's, and takes place during scenes of the main fic.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Myrcella Baratheon & Jaime Lannister, Myrcella Baratheon/Trystane Martell
Series: our world hollow universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642807
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set during the events of ["our world hollow,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22234264) but told from Jaime's POV instead of Myrcella's. You don't have to read that first to understand this, but it's highly recommended that you do.

“I never held your mother like this,” Jaime told him.

The boy said nothing, lay quietly in his grandfather’s arms, listened. That was the Martell blood in him, then—a Lannister would have already interrupted him.

“I heard her, though,” Jaime said. “She screamed all through the night, when she was first born, though I dare say it was more of a roar than a cry. But I didn’t hold her.” He hadn’t been allowed to, hadn’t even asked. He knew the answer, from Joffrey. The children were for their mother’s schemes, not any foolish fancies he may have had to play at being something like a father.

“I held your great uncle Tyrion when he was this young, though,” Jaime went on. “He was just as small as you, but far uglier.”

Jaros was unfazed by the compliment; he just sucked on his little brown fist, far more interested in himself than anything his grandfather was telling him. _Ahh, there’s the Lannister in you._ Jaime chuckled—quietly, as to not disturb Myrcella. Though, as exhausted as she’d been from birthing their new prince, he doubted anything save the dead could wake her.

Jaime eyed his daughter. She lay limply in his arms, heavy breaths fluttering against his skin. In the dim firelight, the slashed flesh of her cheek was quite ghoulish, and _familiar_ , if the scar was more chewed than sliced, healed worse, vast, more savage… but he would not think of that now. He would think of the living. Myrcella. Scarred, and done, and pale, but peaceful, golden, his. On the clear side of her face, yellow eyelashes brushed against a tiny black dot. A beauty mark. Lady Joanna had had the very same one, underneath the same eye—Jaime remembered. It was that mark and that mark alone that separated Myrcella from Cersei, before her scarring. Jaime had his own set of marks, at his temple—the one thing he had that Cersei didn’t, save for a cock.

A soft brush at his stump. Jaime looked down, saw the little paws hitting at him, laughed. “For half a breath you are ignored, and that is enough to make you demand attention. Indeed, you are one of us.” He pushed at the boy’s black curls, searched for beauty marks at his temple. There were none, nor was there any on his face. A Martell through and through, until he saw fit to open his eyes.

Jaime’s eyes.

“I’ve given you an ample amount of my time tonight, my prince,” Jaime told him. “I’d say it’s high time you gave me something in exchange. Lannisters pay their debts, after all, even when they’re fresh out of the womb. I’d say a fair payment for my keeping you company is to open your eyes and actually, oh, I don’t know, _look_ at the one giving you conversation. It’s quite rude, otherwise.”

Like any good Lannister, Jaros did not seem to mind being rude—the eyes stayed shut. Ahh, well. It was not as if Jaime could relive seeing them for the first time, anyhow. The awe at the sheer softness of him, the smallness, the beauty, and then, unstoppable disappointment at the boy’s looks, as—handsome as he was—was all Martell, dark skin, dark hair, no Lannister, no Myrcella, no Jaime, unless Jaime was willing to claim the curls, black as they were, which he most certainly was. But the _eyes._ Jaime had seen them as they opened, and what little disappointment he’d had was killed the moment two emeralds bloomed, and shined, and saw. Cella had laughed at the sight of it, the most beautiful sound, but Jaime had found himself quite speechless.

“Forgive me,” Jaime sighed. “I was wrong to command my prince. I am only a Queensguard, after all. As you will.”

That seemed to do the trick. Jaros wriggled in Jaime’s grip, sniffed and gurgled, and finally, there it was, that green. Striking on brown and black, a perfect blend, speared suns and lions made one, and suddenly, Jaime’s thoughts went to Elia Martell. His mother meant for them to be wed, he knew. Perhaps their child would have looked like this; midnight hair, cat eyes, sunkissed skin. Beautiful, and strong, and smirking. And a brother, with the sun in his hair instead of his skin, and black Martell eyes. And another. One more. All of them with a mother who was alive and not humiliated, raped, murdered. All of them held by him, as Cersei’s children had never been. All of them his.

But then, unbidden, another picture came to him. A babe. A newborn babe, _large,_ a giant in the making, a warrior writ small, pale as the moon, curls of gold on its head, freckles painting its skin. And when it opened its eyes, sapphires glittered, cloudless skies, oceans, the eyes of the island he had never seen, yet dwelled in his mind regardless, burned just before his eyes, sought, searched for, _yearned._ Eyes that had been closed when the holy men stood over them, and he’d wrapped his cloak over her drenched, bloodied pillow. Eyes he had not gazed into as long as he wanted, before they turned away from him for the final time.

Unearthly eyes.

Blue eyes.

Astonishing eyes.

From below, Jaros let out a whimper. A droplet of water had hit his little cheek, somehow. Jaime brushed it away with his thumb. “Hush, Cub,” he murmured hoarsely to his grandson, as he caressed him. His skin felt like feathers.

At his touch, Jaros calmed. Jaros. Jaime, and Nymeros. Myrcella had named him. A gift Jaime had not earned, but would certainly not refuse.

Cella. She stirred in her slumber, buried her head further in his chest. Jaime held his daughter closer, rested his cheek on her golden head. Breathed her in.

A girl.

He would have wanted Brienne to give him a girl.


	2. After

Myrcella’s moon’s blood was on her.

Jaime knew. He always knew. Always saw the unbidden cradling of her belly, the tenseness of her frame, the unsettling half-bred color of panic and numbness that took her eyes. Always heard her voice, in his head. _I shall grow fat and vicious,_ she had told him, laughing as only a Lannister could, after she’d given him the news. _But at least I’ll be spared bleeding for near on a year._

She’d been given blood after it, though. Flesh, too, smashed, splattered, splayed across her son, and his son. After Joffrey’s death, Jaime had vowed to that he would have another son, and hold him. But he had always been an oathbreaker. So he’d only had a grandson to hold, and even him not for half a breath before Elia’s vengeance reigned upon him. He could not save Aegon or Rhaenys. He did not save Tommen or Jaros. He’d held them both—once, twice, a hundred times, an eon, a breath. Not enough. Never enough.

He had not carried them in his belly, though. Did not feel them inside him, growing, moving, conquering as lions do. Did not know the emptiness of a womb after birth, the feeling of weeping milk for a babe that was too buried beneath the gold of Casterly Rock to whimper and reach for it, too ripped in half to drink. Did not know the pain of being betrayed by his body with every full moon that passed, reminded of what he’d lost.

He could feed her, though. Give her his share of the food. Do the hunting, as slow as it would take. Not wake her at the earliest hour. He could be kind to her, and not snap at her scowls and sullen silences, the rage that made her look like Cersei, even with her missing ear and severed cheek. He could be as gentle as he’d seen Ned Stark be, with his daughters. For all the self-righteous cunt the man had been, no one could deny he had been a sweet father to his daughters.

The moon’s blood gave her nightmares. Far across the fire, she would thrash, scream, whimper _Jarry, Tommy, no,_ and his chest would tighten, and his nails would bleed from clutching the frozen ground, but he would not move. She would not appreciate his comfort, not then. But her pain made him remember his wrath, and paid Lannister debts, and white and gold hands bleeding with blood that was not his own, but _was—_ twin blood, Lannister blood, their blood, and soft flesh pressing, green eyes bulging, his eyes, their eyes, him, her, _her,_ them, all of them, as dead as the cubs and lions who’d been killed years and breaths before.

Tonight, she was in agony. Her cries had never been so anguished, her misery never so swelled and piercing, and Jaime knew why.

Lem Lemoncloak’s head had been stomped into a pulp by his foot, stomped and smashed as he thought of his lady wife, gutted by this scum, dying alone and afraid, _murdered,_ and Jaime had killed them all, slashed and disemboweled and beheaded, but with Lem he beat and beat and _beat,_ and the squelching was a song that could not quell the red before his eyes, the ringing in his ears, and the piece of shit had never been dead enough, never, but when his broken arms stopped twitching, and there was no face to stomp, only crushed brain, he had taken Myrcella, grabbed her, forced her to watch, to look at what she’d wrought, because she’d lured them here, had lied about _no enemies near,_ had wanted to die, had wanted to kill him, and now he had Brienne’s sword but no Brienne, had heard her murderers laugh as they recalled her death, and Myrcella had struggled, did not want to see, but a madness had taken him, and he’d grabbed her chin and _forced—_

And it was only when she cried out that he awoke. Let her go. Walked over to the corpse, the ruin of brains and skull where Lemoncloak’s head had been, and realized what he’d done to her. Realized what he made her see. Realized that he had been and always would be a monster, and Brienne of Tarth was a fool to think he was any different from that man she’d heard spewing filth in Catelyn Stark’s dungeon. Realized that Myrcella was better off when Robert Baratheon was her father.

He hadn’t apologized; that would do nothing but make her think of it more. So he’d just covered the destroyed head that looked so much like Tommen’s, and the red strings that mirrored the tiny ribbons holding both halves of little Jaros’s body together. Walked away. Listened to his daughter’s shaking whimpers, her choked sobs. Did not hold her. Held his lady wife’s sword with someone else’s hand, looked at its red and black gleam without seeing. Uttered some sort of command to loot the place.

And she punished him. “The sea is completely frozen, and overrun with dead things in the water, besides,” she told him, and the hatred and spite laced in her voice stabbed into him with each word. “You will never be able to take the sword to Tarth. Never.”

Never. Just like he never set his cloak about Brienne’s shoulders, only over her sweaty, bloodied pillow. Never heard her repeat the words back to him after he murmured them sweetly to her, or say them again when she was awake to hear him, listen to him say it as she watched with her open, clear eyes. Just like he never kissed her as a husband should kiss a wife—only on her forehead, when she lay dying in the Quiet Isle on the sickbed turned into a marriage bed, or quick, polite brushes on her massive, beautiful warrior’s hands that dwarfed his, or her scarred cheek as she left him that final time, to resume her quest to find Lady Sansa. Never told her that he’d married her, because she had _called_ for him in her fevered slumber, and he would not leave then, but those fucking monks and their godsforsaken _rules._

Never told her why he married her.

Never _told her._

Never even said it to himself, in his own thoughts. Three words, unsaid, unthought, but felt so fiercely in his chest it was a wonder his heart had not yet gorged and burst, swelled in his eyes the moment he’d heard word that _Brienne of Tarth was slain,_ yet no tears had ever fallen, none.

There were no tears on Myrcella’s face when she rose from her bedroll, and crawled into his. She said nothing as she snuggled in and lay her head on his chest, just as she always did. Normally he’d return the kindness, hold her back, wait for her to fall into a peaceful sleep. It was not uncommon to him—this part of it. Tyrion had come to his bed many a time when they were children, seeking comfort after terrible dreams, and Jaime had apparently been quite good at keeping them at bay simply by being there, with his arms around him.

It was not different with Myrcella. In this one aspect, it was not different. But his brother was dead now, too, his head separated from his body by the Others, stuffed on a frosted pike for all to see. Jaime had held the head to his chest, warmed his little brother as best he could, held him like he did when they were boys, but Tyrion did not wake up, and Jaime stood there, and Myrcella had been there, too, and she had held him and Tyrion both, and they would have died then, all three of them dead and standing in the winter, if Jon Snow had not found them.

They were out in the winter again, now, but Tyrion’s bones were in Jaime’s bag, and it was Jaime holding Myrcella, this time, as it always should have been. He should not have shown her that weakness.

This weakness he could share, though. “I wed her,” he told his daughter, and for the first time in eons, Jaime Lannister spoke of Brienne of Tarth.

When he woke to cold steel at his throat, he was not surprised. Not while looking into those eyes—green eyes, _his_ eyes, and they were just as dead as his.

“What is the debt you repay?” he asked, because there were hordes of them, and all of them, forever owed. _Myrcella,_ his twin had begged. She had looked to him to save her, but she was not his queen, not anymore—Myrcella was, and she had given Jaime no order, no ceasefire, did not stop him, because she wanted it, too, and so he heeded his queen’s commands. Grabbed the white throat. Pressed and dug and bloomed purple, because the _debt—_ Myrcella’s husband Trystane, brave and loyal and loving to Myrcella even after learning the truth, little Tommen, his tenderhearted Cub, and Jaros, the soft babe with Jaime’s eyes and half of Jaime’s name, and _Brienne_ , his wife, his lady wife, his blue knight, his, _his._ Cersei had taken them, taken all of them, ordered the Mountain to kill their grandson, and Tommen had just been a good uncle protecting his little nephew, but she hadn’t told Gregor _not_ to hurt him, and their sweet boys had been broken, Jaime and Myrcella’s, both of them, Tommen’s head smashed like Aegon’s, Jaros ripped in half, so Jaime had grabbed _his_ other half and _squeezed,_ and Myrcella had wanted it then, wanted it now, but she hated him for it, and she was right. He’d forced her to look at a ruined corpse just like what their boys had left behind, and she hated him for it, and she was right.

She hated him, and she was right.

The question was a wound in her. “You _know_ what it is,” she sneered through grit teeth and wet eyes. The dagger shook in her trembling hands, and her beautiful scarred face twisted in rage and agony, and gods, she did not deserve him, deserve this, deserve any of it. He should have never put his seed in Cersei when she asked, never gone inside her in the first place. Their children never existing would be better. A gift he should have given them. A gift he should have given himself, the moment he opened Aerys’s throat. _Forgive me,_ he wanted to beg her, but the words died on his tongue.

“So do it,” he said instead, and he meant it.

The shaking blade brushed at his flesh. Jaime did not move. He would not hurt her, could not. He could not deny her, and this was fitting, besides. A son killing a father, a brother killing a sister, a daughter-niece killing a father-uncle—all for debts, always for debts, collecting them, and pain, and rage… it was the Lannister way. It was good. It was right. He would not deny her. He would let her.

Hitched breaths, shaking, and the dagger was sheathed. Her hands found his throat, though. Two white hands, white as winter, white as her mother. Gentle, at first, then, clenching. Squeezing. Pressed, dug, _cut—_

Cut.

His hands were not her hands. Her nails were longer. So she’d cut him with her nails. Red wept down his flesh, a lone tear streaming.

Myrcella flinched from him as if he were fire. Her chest heaved, and her green eyes widened, and she blinked, and he looked at her, and she looked at him, and she hated. She rose, went back to her bedroll, her hands shaking so hard he could see them trembling, even in the frost and darkness and flickering firelight.

As she lay in her bedroll, eyes open and staring dead at the eternal darkness, Jaime recalled a time she lay in a real bed, in his mother’s old chambers at the Rock. Her golden curls had been sticky with sweat, and she was exhausted and pale, but there was a Cub in her arms with brown skin and black hair and green eyes, and they were both beautiful, his daughter, and his grandson. Jaime had held them close, pressed his lips against Myrcella’s temple. She leaned against him, closed her eyes. “I love you,” she had said, before slumber took her. She had not spoken a name, but somehow, Jaime knew it was for both of them, son and grandfather. He didn’t say it back, though. Just held her tighter, let the words play to her in his mind. With Brienne he could not dare say it aloud, or even think it, but considering what he’d robbed of Myrcella the moment he’d created her, her owed her that much.

The silence was endless. Only the crackling of fire, and the breath she didn’t choke out of him.

Then, “You should have let them kill us,” she said.

Jaime did not know who she spoke of—the Brotherhood, or the wights, or Aegon’s soldiers, or Cersei and her wildfire. It did not matter. It was all true.

“I know,” he said. _And I love you, too._


End file.
